


Rules Were Made to be Broken

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bertolt's name is spelt Bertholdt, Knight, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Thief, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bertholdt Hoover was born into a poor family of thieves. Reiner Braun was born into a rather average family (rich to some) and aspires to become a knight in shining armor. Growing up, both of them become as expected, but there is one key difference: Bertholdt never got to choose his "occupation".Sneaking around the dark alleys of Reiner's kingdom, Bertholdt smiles as he notices a rather naïve merchant turn around in his stand temporarily to look for something misplaced. Pulling his cloak over his head, the thief draws his dagger silently and lunges for the kill. . .only to hit solid iron armor and fall backwards onto his butt."A thief, hm?" the knight asks cockily."A knight. . ." the thief hisses through his teeth.





	1. Prologue - Their Stories

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally publishing something! (I'll probably get lazy later in the series, but for now I have motivation!)
> 
> This story is a Medieval AU revolving around Reiner becoming a knight and Bertholdt as a thief, in short. As a warning, the rating may go up in later chapters. But, for now, enjoy the first chapter—a prologue describing how Bertholdt and Reiner grew up.

 

ℬ. ℋ.

  
I never would have considered myself a thief. What I do is simply _what I do_. I don't think of it as stealing—I think of it as surviving.

And surviving isn't easy lately.

I come from a poor family. . . A family who, over time, had lost the difference between right and wrong. They taught me from a young age that everything is mine, _as long as I can make it mine without being caught_. I was born into a time of famine (a good omen, I know) and what my parents did was not unusual. I watched them as a child, leaving our small home with nothing but a cloak and a dagger. . .only to return with food of all different sorts accompanied by bruises and wounds.

I remember foolishly thinking that I didn't earn to eat the food my parents brought me. They came back hurt, and I felt that eating the food they had rightfully earned for themselves was wrong and unfair. Teaching me a lesson, my parents agreed and let me temporarily starve. It was a stupid decision on my part, but I stuck to it until you could easily count the ribs protruding from my sickly pale chest. Those were not my best days, needless to say, but my parents weren't _that_ harsh. Once they noticed my condition, they gave me more than half of the rations they brought back each day, and I was both grateful and skeptical. _Lesson learned_ , I had noted.

As I grew up, my parents came to the realization that I was old enough to start joining them on their dangerous quests outside our home. They outfitted me with a cloak that was much too big as well as my very own dagger—a dagger I still use to this very day. We ventured outside our small house (if it could even be called that) and immediately took to the shadows. The first rule of what I was taught is to never let yourself be seen in broad daylight. Light was the enemy. We stayed in the dark alleys and hid in the backs of carriages. Having your face seen even by an average villager could be the end of you. We were never safe outside of our home.

If there was one thing I recalled from the rule to never being caught, it'd be when my mother explained how I lost my uncle to a knight of the Royal Court. Dragged to the King himself to decide his fate, he was chosen to be beheaded in front of the entire kingdom! How dreadful. Another rule of my lifestyle: blood and gore was something you needed to be used to—especially since you were most likely to be the one to cause it. Never become attached, either. You never know who could be next. . .

I was a thief of many talents, my parents used to tell me, but my self-consciousness overrode that praise. Sure, I was skilled with a dagger and could shoot a bow and arrow, but that was about it. I didn't consider myself anything out of the ordinary. That brings up yet another rule: never think too highly of oneself. That confidence could get you killed in a heartbeat. Stay cautious. Strong emotions were not tolerated as well. Mourning over the death of a comrade, laughing at your enemy’s misery. . . It's all too risky.

At the age of sixteen, I found out my mother had fallen deathly ill. It scared my father and I, not knowing what to do in a situation like this. A medic was out of the question— _WANTED_ signs were posted around every corner of my father from an incident with a merchant. We didn't know what the diagnosis was, so how were we supposed to know what could possibly be the cure? We tried everything for the average illness; kept her laid down and fed her regularly, but her condition only seemed to worsen. I never factored an event like this into my life. It's not like I expected my parents to live forever, but I didn't want it to be _this_ soon.

Her death was not unexpected, but it did teach me something.

I can _never_ become attached, not even to my own parents, and be safe. I cried for the first time ever that day whilst my father stood behind me, silently and reassuringly patting my back. I knew he cared, but he wasn't going to break down like I had. He was too strong for that.

We continued with our daily lives, but I took notice in my father changing. He seemed more. . .depressed. His movements were never as sharp as they once were, and he talked to me less and less. It became so bad that we had unknowingly made our own code so he could tell me something without having to say a word. Pointing meant go there, tapping his foot silently meant there were people nearby, shifting his cloak meant we needed to be quieter, etc. Our relationship as father and son was diminishing.

It was one morning when my father finally spoke to me. We were both leaving together to get our daily rations, but he put his hand out. “Stay here,” he ordered sternly, and I obeyed. I stayed home while my father grabbed his things and left without another word. Morning turned to noon, and noon turned to evening. . . I was beginning to get worried. I was tempted to go out myself and find him, but then his two-word command replayed itself in my mind. I remained where I was.

Evening became midnight.

Staying awake, I listened to the silence that ensued in my empty house. There was a bit of rustling outside, and I flinched. I got up from where I sat and walked to the door, quietly and slowly opening it a crack to peek through. A villager man, the baker down the street, was ripping down posters from the front of his bakery.

Posters of my father.

My blood ran cold.

_That doesn't mean anything_ , I told myself. _Maybe they were just getting in the way of his displays_. I closed my door, restraining myself to not slam it, and then sat back down in the wooden chair I had been in all day long.

My father never came back.

The grief was brief and nothing compared to how I had been when my mother passed. I still don't know what exactly happened to my father, but I could only assume he turned himself in after losing the fight with his depression. I lived in our home for a year before the silence became unbearable. I couldn't do it anymore. I racked up all the money I had earned recently (mostly from pickpocketing, naturally) and bought a horse from the stables. I gathered what belongings I could carry and closed my door for the last time.

I didn't know where I was going, but I knew for sure I wanted a fresh start. Whatever higher power out there must have been in my favor, for I found a new kingdom in a matter of days. It was certainly bigger than my birthplace, that was a definite. It looked much less poor, as well, which made me almost giddy.

And that was how I found myself in my current position, riding for the guarded gate in a dark cloak with my dagger strapped to my side in case things didn't go the way I was hoping.

 

* * *

ℛ. ℬ.

My life was simplistic in all aspects.

I grew up in an average household—rich to some, and normal to others. The kingdom I lived in, I discovered, was very plentiful compared to others, and my parents were blessed with an average pay rate to support my sister and I as well as themselves. My mother and father held a healthy relationship with each other, never fighting or yelling (unless my sister or I did something stupid, which wasn't unusual). I still smile at the memory of stealing a few cookies from the merchant down the street, him yelling and shaking his fist as we ran off giggling.

Job wise, my father’s a blacksmith. He's paid well, but has long hours for repairs. My mother, on the other hand, is a baker who owns her own shop. Everyone loves her cakes she makes with a “secret ingredient”.

My little sister and I have contrasting hobbies—her playing with dolls and dresses while I play pretend as a courageous knight in shining armor slaying a dragon. My inspiration to become a knight was a mystery to my parents. However, I could easily tell myself why. I remember the day too well when the trumpet sounded out, echoing around the kingdom and summoning every villager to the streets. There, I watched the knights—covered in armor and holding up banners to the heavens—riding their horses to battle. Swords were sheathed at their sides, I noticed quickly, and their expressions were solemn. None of them waved or even acknowledged the cheering and praising happening all around them. I thought it was hopeless to try and get their attention, but the big smile on my face remained as they continued to walk through the kingdom.

A passing knight, who held his helmet at his side, did meet my widened eyes. I almost gasped aloud as a small smile ghosted his face—just a quick quirk of his lips—and then he was looking ahead stoically. I choose not to think it was my imagination playing tricks on me.

From that day forward, I knew I wanted to be a knight and defend my kingdom to my last breath.

Life continued as it usually would, but I was much more generous and kind. I thanked random people on the streets for things that didn't really matter, and frequently did small favors that brought smiles to their faces. I wanted to make a good knight when I grew older, so I decided to start making a positive reputation now. My parents were impressed.

I was very devoted to my dream, and before I knew it, I could make it a reality. I was first a knight’s apprentice for a few years so I could get the hang of the lifestyle. I cleaned and shined armor and weapons mostly, but sometimes I snuck into the training area after everyone had left and swung a sword myself. I grew accustomed to the weapon’s weight in my hand, and—though I had no one that knew for sure who could tell me this—I thought I was doing rather well being self-taught.

It was about the middle of the night when I snuck into the training room again. This was the fifth time I’d done this, and I felt more at ease now having done it before. I grabbed the sword from the weapons rack in the back and slowly took it out of its sheath. The silver blade seemingly glowed in the dimness of the room, and I stared at my reflection in it, battered and bruised from making the mistake of forgetting to clean one knight’s chestplate while working. Needless to say, he was less than pleased. My eyes drifted to the wooden dummy in the middle of the room, and I readied my blade as I'd seen other knights do during training in the daylight. I lunged for the dummy, striking it right where its heart would be and then proceeding to attack it in all the vital regions I knew. The backs of the knees—where the armor didn't cover, neck, stomach, and so forth.

For some reason, I felt more tense than usual. I didn't know what it was, but I continued to jab at the dummy as I had any other night, training like my life depended on it. Eventually, I wore out. Exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I quickly cleaned the sword before putting it back into its sheath. I stared at the covered blade and sighed to myself, wondering when the day would arrive that I could own and wield a sword permanently. I turned to exit the room, but found a silhouette looming in the doorway.

I froze.

_How long have they been there!? Maybe I could say I was just finishing cleaning up._

“Your skills are impressive.”

I felt my eyes widen and a gasp escape my gaping mouth. They couldn't be serious, right? They must've seen me at least train a little. What if they tell the head knight? Or, gods forbid, the _King_!?

“At ease, apprentice. You look like you've just seen a ghost.” _Apprentice?_

“U-uh, yessir!”

We held a short conversation consisting of how he admired my skill for being self-taught, but he'd like to give me some pointers. I eagerly agreed to that suggestion, and he told me to meet him here at dawn—no earlier, no later. With that, he practically kicked me out with a warning, but I was too happy to care. I was going to be trained by a _real knight_. I could hardly believe it.

Training in the morning was as expected. I used the sword I had been using the night before, and my teacher was very strict, but understanding. He told me I held my sword incorrectly as well as my strikes being too lazy, but I didn't care for the insults. I took it all as a lesson, and listened carefully.

By the end of the first day, I felt like I couldn't know anything more about wielding a sword, but I knew I had much to learn. He informed me to meet him here tomorrow morning as well and we would continue. I left around midday, and my parents were furious when I arrived home. Deciding it'd be best not to lie, I explained what was happening truthfully.

Both of them held too many doubts.

“A knight!?”

“Honey, that's just too dangerous.”

“Zounds! No son of mine is going to throw his life away to become some good-for-nothin’ sacrifice for the King!”

“We don't want to lose you.”

I looked between the two of them, eyes wide and anger beginning to brew. I thought they'd be supportive of this! Becoming a knight is one of the greatest honors to be bestowed upon a person! My brows furrowed in anger and I felt like steam was blowing out of my ears. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“I want to become a knight! And nothing either of you say can change my mind!” I shouted.

I stormed into my room (well, my sister and I’s room) and fell onto my bed, groaning in annoyance. I was going to have to find a way to hide this from them.

The next morning, I arrived before dawn and was surprised to see my teacher already there. He gave me a look of questioning, and I explained the situation. At first, he was skeptical of me disobeying my parents, but after knowing how much I wanted to do this, he hesitantly obliged. We trained every early morning, and every morning, I’d arrive back home before my parents roused. No suspicions arose, which I was grateful for.

Years passed, and my training became assorted as well as less frequent. My teacher and I became closer, and I even sometimes considered him like an uncle. He taught me how to use other weapons, how to dress in armor correctly and then how to shed it, and eventually how to ride a horse (we did this in the fields, of course, and it helped for how many times I was bucked off). We stayed in the dark, keeping any suspicions low so I wouldn't be caught and nor would he. My body did. . .change when it came to physique, but I just told my parents I’d been more active. They believed me.

One morning during training, I was hacking away at the wooden dummy with my sword while my instructor watched and criticized me. I'd occasionally reply something offensive to his “criticism”, but I was only half-joking. It was when he stopped talking for a few minutes that I realized something wasn't right. I sheathed my sword at my side and glanced over at him curiously. He was unmoving. I didn't understand why until I noticed the shadow behind him.

There was someone standing behind him.

I blinked and went to speak, but my instructor put his hand up to silence me. I complied. “What an honor,” he spoke, and I flinched. “to meet the Prince himself. What are you doing here, boy? Shouldn't you be asleep?”

My teacher moved out of the way and then turned to face whoever was behind him, bowing down with a hand on his chest. I stared forward, dumbstruck as I met the eyes of the prince of this kingdom, son of the King himself. The boy was only about ten years of age, but he had a determined look in his eyes. I quickly bowed down, almost falling over in the process and apologized repeatedly.

The prince laughed.

“My, my. . . You two do know this place closes at the kingdom curfew and does not reopen until dawn, correct?”

I bit my lower lip nervously.

“Correct, my lord,” my teacher answered. “We apologize sincerely for disobeying the rules. We will leave at once and accept any punishment you have in mind—”

“Actually, I have something else in mind,” the prince interrupted. “This trainee’s performance is astounding, and it looks like you make a good instructor. How about we make a little deal? You don't tell my father I was up at this time of morning, and I apply for you to become a higher rank, and you to become a knight?” The boy pointed to my instructor and then to me as he addressed us.

I straightened up and choked on nothing, incredulous to the words that were leaving the prince’s mouth. He couldn't be serious, surely. This is all just a joke and we’re both going to be beheaded. I gulped at the thought.

“U-uh, Prince, surely—” my teacher tried to reason, but the boy shook his head.

“If my father knew I was up at this time, I'll be sent to my room for ages! Would you like to be brought into knighthood? And a commander?” he asked the both of us, and I was almost trembling in anticipation. This was like a dream I'm going to wake up from, isn't it? Just a figment of my imagination showing me how deeply devoted I am to this.

“We won't tell your father,” I blurted out and my instructor turned around to give me a nasty look. The boy smiled brightly and nodded. I wasn't sure how he was going to explain him seeing me training if he doesn't want the King to know he was awake this early, but I didn't worry about it.

With that settled, he bid us goodbye and shut the door. I listened to the pitter-patter of his receding footsteps, mouth still agape and mind unsure. What if the boy was lying and was about to go tell the King about our whereabouts? I shook my head and put my sword away.

The prince kept his word.

The next day, my home was visited by many knights, the head asking to speak with me. My mother was silent while my father resisted like there weren't armed knights in front of him. “And why in the world would I get my son for you, you cowards!”

I heard him yell and rushed from my room to intervene. The head knight explained what's been going on and both of my parents were speechless. I felt guilty, but at the same time, this is what I wanted to do. I would become loyal to my kingdom and serve my King until my last breath.

I left with the knights, my father still shouting insults after them. He even called me foolish, but I ignored it. This was my dream, and I was going to live it.

My knighthood ceremony was brief, but most definitely memorable. Knighted with the King’s sword, I put a hand to my chest and pledged my loyalty. I also had the honor of witnessing my teacher be ranked up. His smile was so big it looked like he was going to explode. I resisted the urge to burst out laughing.

And, that. . . was how I find myself in my current position. Standing beside the King’s throne with my armor on and shined to perfection, I glanced toward the sword sheathed at my side—the same sword I had first used when I began training.


	2. Chapter I - The Boy With Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt finally arrives at the kingdom in which he's going to start over his life as a thief.
> 
> Reiner gets off of his shift as a guard and goes to visit the main plaza of the kingdom, only to see something— well, someone that is quite out-of-the-ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, Chapter 1! I hope it doesn't seem like it's short or rushed at all;;

Getting through a guarded gate as a thief on a horse is not going to be easy.

 _It looks like there's about four guards_ , Bertholdt thinks to himself, assessing the situation for loopholes. _I could try to make my way around. . . No, that's too far_. As his horse draws closer to the gate, Bertholdt pulls the hood of his cloak up only a little. He doesn’t want to seem suspicious to the guards, but he also doesn't want to be fully exposed to them either.

His dagger’s hidden, making this a bit easier if things go wrong, but the guards are wearing armor. . . He'd just have to aim for the chinks. A pleasant breeze blows through the area as Bertholdt arrives as the gate, guards all turning to give him a skeptical look. He smiles sheepishly. Jubilant music echoes around the kingdom, reaching Bertholdt’s ears and making his heart pound with anticipation. This is it. This is where he’s going to start his new life.

”Hey! You there!”

Bertholdt pulls on the reins of his horse, causing it to stop in its tracks and whinny in protest. He's not far from the gate, but is going to listen to the guards in order to gain access to the kingdom. He looks up and notices one of the said guards walking in his direction, sword hand cautiously placed against the sheath on his side. “Take the hood down!” One of them back at the gate shouts, and Bertholdt is reluctant to oblige. His eyes drift back to the guard now meteres away from him, and they nod. Sighing, Bertholdt reaches a hand up and pushes back his hood.

The guard stops walking and an almost dumbstruck look flutters through his stoic façade. Bertholdt raises an eyebrow. Clearing his throat and acting like nothing happened, the guard commands this “foreigner” to state his business for visiting this kingdom. Bertholdt quickly runs through a list of possible lies in his mind. He settles on one that may just work.

“Ah, what an honor to have finally arrived! It is even more beautiful in person!” Bertholdt glances dreamily at the kingdom behind the gate and then back to the guard, who looks unimpressed. “I am a merchant, hailing from another kingdom south of this one!” He tries to sound overly enthusiastic, but Bertholdt had never really talked much, and this was pushing it. He throws his hands up.

“Where are your goods to sell?” the guard asks, gesturing to Bertholdt’s horse, which holds what little belongings and provisions he owned from his old home. Bertholdt laughs halfheartedly and slides off his horse, watching as the guard’s sword hand twitches impulsively. He opens the pack on the side of his horse and takes out some produce (which had miraculously not gone bad yet) and shows it to the guard, cocking his head to the side.

”I know I may not have much to offer yet, but surely these must be worth something, seeing as they are freshly grown,” he lies. He tosses an apple to the guard, who catches it effortlessly and eyes it as if it may be poisonous. _He has a helmet on. He will not taste it_ , Bertholdt hopes, still forcing a pleasant smile. To his relief, the guard tosses the apple back and nods curtly. He turns back and marches to the gate, instructing the guards above to raise the aforementioned gate. The thief watches in awe as the gate rises, exposing but a preview of the colorful kingdom that lies ahead. His smile is no longer forced.

Grabbing the reins of his horse, Bertholdt leads his steed through the gate, ignoring the looks of the guards who watched him do so. He almost couldn't believe it was that easy, but he _did_ have to sacrifice all them now knowing what his face looks like for later references. He was angry with himself for that reason, but didn't linger on that thought for long. The kingdom was absolutely massive and full of color and life. He looked around inquisitively as he walked—seeing cream-colored homes with red roofs and doors, people wearing all different color clothing and all having a big smile on their faces. A group of children ran past him, chasing a dog who held some ribbon in its mouth. “My mother needs that for sewing, Arthur!” the little girl in the front shouted. Bertholdt chuckled under his breath, pulling his hood back up.

 _Now. . . I just need to find somewhere to tie my horse up for a little bit. A stable? As well, perhaps I can stay in an inn for the time being? For somewhere to sleep?_ Continuing walking, Bertholdt began to notice that a few people passing him would occasionally give him questioning looks. Of course, he couldn't blame them. If he was walking through his kingdom and saw some guy in a cloak leading his horse around, he'd wonder too. But, he didn't let that bother him. His shoes, along with his horse’s hooves, both _click_ and _clack_ against the cobblestone streets. Maybe when he found some stables and an inn he could take his cloak off and just walk around to observe for a little while. It'd be breaking a thieves’ code, but switching between a normal civilian and a thief couldn't be _that_ difficult of a task. Plus, he believed he could blend in pretty easily without his cloak and weapon. Just a boy with dark hair and green eyes. . .

He's been told his green eyes were oh so rare, but he didn't really believe that. Bertholdt never wanted to go against the crowd, so anything that made him different was not tolerated. Of course, he can't just get rid of his eye color, but he chooses to just ignore it. Speaking of standing out, there was one thing that Bertholdt really wishes he wasn't “gifted” with, in his parents’ words.

Height. Too much of it, for that matter.

Bertholdt always wished he was short—it'd make things _so much easier_. Sneaking around as someone who’s 192 centimeters tall isn't simple. However, he's learned to cope. It just meant more hiding and less risks. His height would be easy to remember, and therefore a big risk for being caught. Shaking out of those thoughts, Bertholdt’s olive-green eyes scanned the area around him, searching for a place to tie up his horse and an inn to stay the night in. Luckily, he found the former first. If he'd found the latter, he probably would have just continued searching and then came back later—if he could remember the way, that is. Smiling at the friendly lady who owned the stables, Bertholdt holds a short conversation of a polite greeting, a discussion of price, and then a thanks. The male digs a hand into his pocket, taking out the correct amount of coinage (which was practically all he had left) and handing it over, to which the lady gratefully accepts. He inwardly sighs to himself, wondering how he was going to earn that back before nightfall. _Probably pickpocketing again, but I don't want to be caught this soon. . ._

Getting his horse situated in a stable, Bertholdt ruffles his steed’s mane, smiling gently before turning away and starting his exploration of the new kingdom.

* * *

The day was slow; consisting of the average guard duty until his brief break in the noon hours. Reiner stretched his arms out in front of him, feeling all the aching joints give a satisfying _crack_. He sighs in content at being able to see his skin for the first time that day—having been covered with iron armor since his hours began. He's a knight of the Royal Guard, and life is not easy. However, he likes it that way. He wants a challenge, not something simple and boring.

Reiner glances over at his armor stand in the corner of his room, standing tall and alert. The iron of his armor shines and reflects the daylight that sweeps through his open window, a breeze occasionally whispering through the silk curtains. His room is simple, and that's how he prefers it. A small room in the guard tower that holds a bed, a wooden desk and chair, his armor stand, and a chest for belongings. The walls are made from old stone bricks, a creaky wooden floor complementing the atmosphere, and a small red carpet that lies in the middle of the room. Two lone paintings hang on the stone walls, one of the kingdom’s proud symbol and another of a beautiful sunset setting. Reiner often found comfort in looking at either one of the paintings. One shows him where his loyalty lies and how much he cares about protecting the good people of this kingdom. The other is most relaxing—a sunset on a meadow painted with elegance and grace, colors blending perfectly with one another.

Reiner sighs to himself and gets up from where he's sitting at the foot of his bed. He still has an hour or two until it's time for guard duty once more, so why not head off to town? Take a look at what some merchants have to offer, greet some civilians, maybe even. . . No. He shakes that thought out of his head. Running a hand through his blond hair, Reiner starts out of his room and to the main square—mainly just to sightsee.

Today’s not as busy as he'd expect it to be, but no harm done. People are cheery and greet him on the streets, to which he waves back and smiles, but doesn't say much else unless he knows that person well enough. Arriving at the main square, it’s almost an uproar as he walks past the merchants’ stands, them practically begging him to buy something. Needless to say, Reiner is very well known in this kingdom as a knight. He declines politely and explains that he's just taking a look around to kill time. They nod in understanding, but still offer many assorted discounts on a myriad of items if he ever does decide to buy something in the future. He knows he won't.

It's not that he dislikes the attention, but he would also appreciate being treated just like everyone else some days. Continuing walking around, glancing at what merchants have to offer, he spots a small crowd near one of the streets branching off the main plaza. Curious, he heads that way, only to hear people using incredulous voices.

“Do you think he's some sort of witch?”

“Do not be silly! He would have to be a warlock if anything.”

“I cannot believe this!”

“We need to tell the King at once!”

At the mention of the King, Reiner barrels over to the group, pushing his way through since people seemed less than pleased to simply let him through. “What's going on here?” the knight asks in an authoritative tone, grabbing a good portion of the crowd’s attention. _A witch? A warlock?_ he ponders.

“Sir Braun!” someone cries out in the crowd, and Reiner glances in the direction he heard the voice from. “There is a boy here with _green eyes_!” Now, it all made sense. Reiner sighed in irritation. Yes, green eyes were quite rare, but these naïve villagers always accuse the poor person for being some mystical being just because of their extraordinary eye color. It's ridiculous.

“Alright, alright. Everyone back to minding their own business. I will take care of this,” Reiner orders, and the villagers reluctantly disperse. All except for one. Reiner guesses this must be the “warlock with green eyes”. He almost chuckles at the thought. However, all jesting aside, the boy did look a little. . .out-of-the-ordinary to Reiner. A fairly tall male of a lean physique wearing a nightshade blue tunic, a white button-down shirt beneath, and tan trousers with brown leather shoes. His hair’s dark and naturally tousled, framing a fair-skinned face with—indeed—dull emerald-green eyes. His eyes themselves were not dull in the least. In fact, they almost sparkle in the daylight. However, the color itself isn't quite a bright emerald green; more of an olive shade. Reiner tears his own eyes away from the boy and starts to walk away, deciding he had done his job.

An unbelievably soft, “Thank you.” sounds from behind Reiner’s back as he turns in the other direction. He found it strange that a boy of that size could be so soft-spoken, but doesn't question it.

“You are welcome. Just stay out of trouble,” Reiner replies gruffly, deciding he's had enough of the main square for one day. It's about time for his shift anyway, so that kills two birds with one stone.

If Reiner still had been facing the green-eyed boy, he would have seen the incredibly wicked grin that stretched across his face at the blond’s last command.

_Oh, I'll stay out of trouble; don’t you worry. You're only in trouble if you get caught!_


	3. Chapter II - Night Holds Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is drawing to a close and Bertholdt is almost giddy to put his skills to use. However, things don't go quite as planned. 
> 
> Reiner always was one to sleep peacefully with no worries, but as he continues to toss and turn during the night, something just doesn't feel right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiner and Bertl will be meeting soon! ^^ I have to admit, this isn't turning out how I originally anticipated, but it'll get better! I promise! (Well, I hope--)

_Sir Braun. . ._ Bertholdt watches silently as the crowd disperses at the knight’s command. It’s amazing how much authority he holds in the faces of these villagers. One simple order and they were gone. Keeping up with his shy demeanor, Bertholdt utters a quiet, “Thank you,” to the man with golden-colored eyes. Golden eyes. . . Or are they hazel? Bertholdt subtly inspected the man’s features, almost contrasting completely to his own. With short blond hair and those hazel eyes that looked like golden honey in the sunlight. . . His skin tone is quite pale, but his physique is astounding; bulky and muscular. He wears a cream-colored button down—exposing his defined collarbones and some of his chest—with dark pants and black shoes. Bertholdt feels like a mere peasant compared to him, which wasn't too far from the truth.

At the blond's reply to his thanks, Bertholdt resists the urge to laugh. His grin, however, manages to peek out from his façade, but luckily, the knight was turned away from him. He nods, more to himself than the golden-eyed man, and is on his way. He’s sure that won’t be the last time he sees that knight.

The tall boy arrives back at the inn shortly after his encounter. He tells himself that he doesn't like being an average civilian—especially since he can’t blend in like he hoped with these cursed green eyes. If only he’d been born with brown or hazel or even blue. Walking into the inn, inwardly thankful that he managed to get a room on the first floor, Bertholdt goes to his room, shutting the door behind him rather forcefully. He didn’t mean to cause any attention to himself, but he’s frustrated. He flops down on the much-too-small-for-him bed, hearing it creak, and then mutters assorted curses. How was this going to work? He felt like an imbecile. Bertholdt Hoover, an experienced thief, has no idea of what he’s doing. In his old kingdom, this kind of indecision could get him killed.

He shakes his head, getting up from the bed and changing his clothes. He grabs his cloak from where it laid on the wooden floor, looking at the embroidery in the back of it.

“ℬ. ℋ.” sewn in his mother’s elegant script. He frowns.

Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he buttons the single button to keep it in place. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like all those times he’d go out with his parents. He pulls up the hood and grabs his dagger that was on top of the desk in the room. He straps the dagger to his side, as usual, and gives a close-eyed sigh. Back to business.

With that, he pulls the curtains away from the window and slowly pushes it open. It would be sundown soon, which is helpful. He forces a smile and leaps through the open window, landing with the barely audible _thud_ of his boots against the cobblestone.

* * *

The merchant stands are all closed and empty, being too close to nightfall. Bertholdt at least expected them to be out a little later—or maybe a few stragglers who couldn’t find something. He grits his teeth in annoyance and ducks into the nearest alley, keeping to the wall in case there were any people still out and about. Living here was going to take some getting used to; knowing when certain stands open and close, when curfew begins, the guards’ schedules, and so on. He knows his mistakes are understandable for being a new thief in this area, but he’s still angry with himself.

“Goodnight, Jean!” a voice calls, sounding close. Bertholdt tenses.

”Yeah, see you tomorrow, Marco! And I would hurry up if I were you. Be careful,” another voice, farther away and slightly muffled, replies.

“Do not worry yourself!”

And Bertholdt is darting around like a shadow. He freezes once he finds what he’s looking for; a straggling merchant. They’re just about done packing up for the night, it looks like, but this is the thief’s chance. The sky is rapidly growing darker, stars speckled here and there and a crescent moon visible. Bertholdt decides that going around and striking from behind would be what’s best, so he turns around and starts on his way around the small merchant plaza. He’s done things like this a myriad of times, so what does he have to worry about? Peeking through a crack between two buildings to see the merchant’s back, Bertholdt smiles to himself. He squeezes through the small area, thankful for his thin and lean frame.

The merchant hums cheerfully to himself as he packs up his goods into boxes—completely and utterly oblivious to the thief standing right behind him. Bertholdt's olive-colored eyes practically glow in the dark as he silently contemplates whether or not to kill the man in front of him. He chooses not to because that would cause unnecessary violence, and he doesn’t want that. He’ll just simply _ask_ for what he wants.

With lightning quick reflexes, the man’s arms are now pinned to his back and a blade is pressed to his throat. The green-eyed thief leans over the merchant’s shoulder, whispering in his ear, “Scream, and your blood will be next to stain my dagger.” The merchant’s mouth is agape, but no noise escapes it, knowing that threat was not faux.

“Now. . .” Bertholdt clicks his tongue. “What do you have to offer? For free, of course.” The merchant trembles, but doesn’t answer at first. The thief presses his blade harder into the merchant’s throat, and they choke out a gasp.

“T-take anything,” the merchant rasps, head tipped back. Bertholdt remains stoic, but he’s inwardly eager to see what this merchant owns. He glances around the open boxes, spotting some produce as well as a stash of gold coins. He knows he shouldn't feel eager to _steal_ from someone, but it’s how he was raised. This is his lifestyle.

“Do not test me,” Bertholdt murmurs, lowering the blade from the merchant’s throat. A red line remains from the pressure he’d been using. He releases his grip from the merchant’s hands, and they are as still as a statue. Bertholdt feels relieved. Keeping his dagger in the merchant’s way of sight as he grabs what he can get, Bertholdt notices how dark it’s gotten. Surely this is the last merchant out this late—prompting the thief to take many things. Once he’s finished, he points the sharp tip of his blade to the merchant’s throat—only to freeze mid-threat. “Tell anyone about this, and I—”

Tears fall from the merchant’s eyes, and Bertholdt realizes this is the first time he’d seen his face. The merchant is definitely shorter in comparison (though, who isn’t?), but the age difference didn’t look like much. A teenager with dark brown hair that is parted down the middle. His skin is fair, and freckles are speckled across his nose and spilling onto his cheeks. His eyes are a lighter shade of brown, now shining with tears. Bertholdt had never known what guilt felt like until the moment the boy spoke quietly. “Mother and James are not going to be able to eat tomorrow. . .” he says to himself.

Bertholdt stares with wide, green eyes. He whispers one word; “Silence.” And abruptly, he drops half of the things he was originally carrying, and is gone.

* * *

Reiner wishes he could sleep. Laying awake at night, just staring up at the ceiling of his room, his thoughts wander aimlessly. He has a slight headache, but since lying down, it’s faded to just a dull soreness in the back of his head. He tries counting sheep in his head, but he figured that wasn’t going to work by the time he got to two hundred. The knight doesn't know what it is. . .he just _can't_ sleep. He feels calm and tired, so why don’t his eyes remain shut after he closes them?

“I do not understand. . .” he mumbles to himself, voice gravelly with exhaustion. He sits up in his bed, looking over at his window. He always keeps it open during the day, but it’s strictly closed at night. The silky, thin curtains are still, and he can see some moonlight stream into his room. He glances over at his armor stand, so lifelike at this time of night. Overall, the room’s atmosphere is the same as always when he’s trying to sleep, but something’s off. . . There’s a strange tension hanging in the air. Stretching a little, Reiner gets up from his bed and shuffles over to the window. It’s a silent, peaceful night in his kingdom, and he sighs softly.

The view from his window is spectacular, but right now, it’s dark and desolate; the moonlight and stars the only source of light to shine on the kingdom, coating it in its silvery light. Reiner rubs his chin with his hand, feeling light stubble due to needing to shave but not getting the time. Turning away from the window, Reiner goes back to lie down in bed.

He tosses and turns in his sleep, mumbling incoherent things. Oh so restless, the knight keeps his eyes closed and hopes for the best.

* * *

There’s a blade to his throat. He feels the warm, crimson liquid spill from the gash in his neck, coating the dagger in knight’s blood. He feels the stinging, burning pain as he continues to bleed out, nausea assaulting his senses. The blade’s metal is cold—like pressing ice to his throat as the heat of blood slowly melts it. And then, there’s a hand on his chin, cupping it between a thumb and index finger. The skin is almost as cold as the blade. The hand’s touch is surprisingly gentle, thumb running over the skin of Reiner's chin and jawline.

“You pitiful knights. . .” The voice is smooth, but it’s tone is harsh and loathing. “Always thinking you are so _above_ everyone else. It is sickening.” The hand on his chin moves further up his face, touching his cheek. He can’t see anything. There’s a silhouette looming in his vision, but that’s all he can make out.

“Poor Reiner. . .” _Tsk. Tsk._ “Your arrogance and pride will end up getting you killed one day, I assure you.”

There’s a sudden glint of color in the silhouette’s face, right where eyes would be. . . A shade of green flashes.

Reiner snaps his eyes open, first seeing nothing, but after his vision clears, he sees that familiar wooden ceiling. He’s panting as he sits up, feeling dizzy and light-headed. _It was a dream,_ he realizes, feeling disappointed with himself for getting so worked up over nothing. _A dream. . .more like a nightmare._

He rubs his eyes and then automatically looks toward the window. It’s dawn. His shift must start soon. He groans, but gets up nonetheless. You'd think he’d be used to getting up early in the morning by now, and he is. However, it’s different when he only got a few hours of sleep throughout the night. And, god, that very sleep had been tainted.

_Why green?_ he wonders to himself, getting dressed. He begins to put on his armor when there’s a loud knock at his door. Reiner walks to the door, pulling it open only to see a very pissed-off Eren Jaeger. Eren is one of Reiner’s fellow knights of the Royal Guard. With his furious turquoise eyes seemingly staring into his soul, Reiner tenses a little. “Yes?” the blond asks politely.

“’Yes?‘ Reiner Braun, your shift started ten minutes ago and you just got up!?” Eren is also known for his ability to be extremely vocal. Reiner smiles sheepishly.

“Give me a break! I only got a few hours of sleep last night, Jaeger!” Reiner replies, and Eren shakes his head.

“Nobody cares! Now hurry up!” With that, Eren’s on his way, and Reiner narrows his eyes.

_Some comrade he is_ , Reiner thinks to himself, quickly getting on his gear and grabbing his sword, sheathing the blade at his side. He holds his helm as he exits his room, closing the door behind him, and then rushes to the King’s throne room. Most people would think of being in the King’s presence as a great honor, but you get used to it as a knight. It’s the same thing every day.

Except today. Today, Reiner daydreams.


	4. Chapter III - One Can Never Be Too Careful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt carries on with his “duties”, and things become a bit dark. His skills as a thief are admirable, but his stealth has been foiled.
> 
> Reiner is exhausted, but ready if things don’t go as planned. Told to guard the castle gate, he manages to spot something that makes his stomach clench. He’ll find this infiltrator if it’s the last thing he does.

_Green eyes. . ._

Reiner can only come to one conclusion, but then is on the verge of laughing at his own stupidity. It’s not like his nightmares tell the future or something. That’s malarkey. He doesn’t even notice the conversations happening around him. His mind is too preoccupied with his nightmare from the night before. A murderer with green eyes. . . He’s almost as bad as the villagers.

“Sir Braun.” Reiner flinches, the voice easily recognizable as the King’s. “I have requested that you guard the castle’s gates, but I guess Sir Jaeger regretted to tell you this information when he sent for you this morn?” Reiner listens respectfully as the King speaks, and then he nods and apologizes. The King is a kind man; and very understanding at that. He’s very loved by the kingdom, and Reiner can easily see why. He has blond hair, like Reiner’s, but more of a golden shade. But, his eyes are what really stand out; as blue as the sky above on a sunny day. If you’re on casual enough terms with him, he insists you call him by his first name—Erwin—and Reiner had become close enough soon after he became a knight; thanks to the prince.

Prince Armin is a sweet boy, looking much like his father with his ocean-blue eyes. He’s in the library each time Reiner visits—always curled up in a chair with his nose deep in a book. Reiner supposes that’s why the boy was so worried about being caught and sent to his room during their first meeting. Eren and another knight named Mikasa are his personal guards, but they’re more like old friends if anything. Reiner almost feels envy at how close the three of them are to each other. Even though Reiner is a very nice and outgoing guy, he doesn’t have anyone he can call a “best friend”.

“I apologize once again, Your Highness.” Reiner bows to the King before exiting the throne room on his way to the castle’s gate. Guard duty at the gate was always interesting to Reiner, seeing as he always got quite the view from atop the guard towers. The day looked sunny as of now, with a bit of darker clouds near the horizon. Reiner could only hope that it doesn’t start to downpour while he’s still out here. He climbs the ladder up to the guard tower, his armor _clanking_ noisily as he does so. Once to the top, he takes a quick look-around. Things are going as they should—a relief to the knight.

Reiner’s actually exhausted, but he would never admit it. His pride refuses to let tiredness get in the way of his duties as a knight. He stands guard at the top of the tower, watching and waiting for any potential threats. His stance is proud and sure, but his mind is sidetracked. Sidetracked by that horrid nightmare. He can feel the blade pushing into his throat, the blood flowing freely whilst he’s completely helpless. That was always one of Reiner’s worst fears; being useless in serious situations. He had nightmares back as a fresh knight of watching all of his comrades dying around him while all he can do is sit and watch. He’d wake up screaming.

He looks over the kingdom, seeing villagers rush around the streets. Some are working, some are buying things from merchants, and some are just talking to one another. Overall, it’s a normal morning. He sighs to himself in relief. Reiner likes to help people, of course, but today was just not his day. On any other morning, he’d feel like he could do anything. Last night really had drained him.

A high-pitched shriek interrupts his thoughts, and he’s darting his eyes around frantically for the source of the noise, as is the guard on the other tower. Reiner figures it out first. Looking to the main plaza, having a semi bird’s eye view, he notices a merchant bent over and laying face down on his stand, a woman standing in front of the scene. Just the sight alone from this far distance causes Reiner’s stomach to clench. They must have been struck from behind, but there’s no one there. Has an assassin infiltrated? Reiner immediately barks orders to the other guards to go warn the King, and they obey. Reiner himself leaves the guard tower as quickly as possible, deciding to deal with this before it got any more out of hand.

* * *

Bertholdt sits on the end of his bed—well, the bed in his inn room—cleaning his now blood-stained dagger. It was a practice he was accustomed to by now, and the gore didn’t bother him as much as it used to. He remembers the first time his father murdered someone in front of him. . . Let’s just say there was a lot of crying and some vomiting at the violent sight.

Bertholdt does not make his kills carelessly. No, he saw the way that merchant talked to that woman. However, Bertholdt’s no vigilante either. That man made the wrong decision of acting up while he was around—the assorted items at his stand was the real reason the thief did what he did. Truthfully, Bertholdt chooses not to kill if he has the option. It’s during the day he does most of his murders because it’s simply quick and easy. That may sound horrible to the average person, but Bertholdt isn’t like everyone else. He doesn’t consider himself a murderer, but the guilt most certainly is not nonexistent. Last night, for example. The look on that merchant's face. . . It shook the thief to his very core. His most recent kill, on the other hand, was quick and Bertholdt didn't have to see his face as it fell flat against his stand. The woman's shriek was loud and clear in his ears.

The upside to all of this?

As far as Bertholdt knows, no suspicions have risen and he has gold to spare.

Two times of day he goes out for food and staples—morning and evening. If he goes during the night, it’s mainly for extra things he doesn’t necessarily need since merchants have all retired at that time. He already went for the morning, obviously, so only evening was left. Bertholdt sets his dagger and the rag he used to clean it down and then falls back onto his bed, unbuttoning his cloak and throwing it onto the floor. He runs a hand through his messy hair and sighs to himself. He’s not hungry. Thanks to the merchant he found last night, he managed to salvage a few apples and oranges. He had an apple before he left that morning, and it was just about the best thing he had eaten in a while since it wasn’t soft or rotting.

Maybe he could go back into town without his cloak? Would his green eyes still gain attention even after that knight told everyone off? He’s curious now, but then again, curiosity killed the cat. He stares up at the stone ceiling of his room. _What would it be like. . .if I was just another villager here? Where would the thrill go? Into working?_ He can’t imagine getting an adrenaline rush from doing villager work. Maybe a blacksmith. . . But, he just finds everything else so. . . _boring_ —so _average_. If Bertholdt ever wants to turn himself around, he’s sure it’d be very difficult to find an occupation that matches the danger of being a thief.

Without even realizing it, Bertholdt soon drifts off into a thoughtful sleep. His eyes fall closed and his consciousness slowly fades away.

* * *

Bertholdt’s nap is short, but it definitely replenished his energy for what he needs to do soon enough. His eyes slowly open to look at his window. He always leaves it open only a crack during the day to let a breeze seep in—and one does while he looks at the window, ruffling the curtains that hang in front of it. Taking a deep breath, Bertholdt realizes that his right leg is bent at an angle that it shouldn’t be. Ever since he was little, Bertholdt always had this strange habit of waking up in the weirdest of positions—though he had no control over it. He still holds this habit, needless to say.

Rightening himself, Bertholdt leans his head to the left and then to the right, hearing the _crack_ for each side. He gets up from the bed and looks out his window. There’s light rain, but nothing he can’t handle. He picks up his cloak, previously all spread out on the floor and prepares for his evening leave.

Cloak on and dagger hidden, Bertholdt pulls his hood up and opens the window, jumping through and then closing it behind him. He looks up at the sky above him—now a gray shade rather than the brilliant blue it was earlier. The raindrops falling are light, but puddles are already starting to form on the streets as Bertholdt makes his way around. Fortunately for him, buildings are very close together in this kingdom; therefore, giving him more places to hide and take cover. It’s quieter around the streets, probably because of the rain.

The drops _pitter patter_ against the cobblestone and buildings as it begins to pick up. It's now raining rather than sprinkling, but Bertholdt doesn’t mind it. On the contrary, the thief had always loved the rain. Its noises are quite soothing and the wetness of it never bothered him either—his cloak keeps him mostly dry. Some merchants remain outside, despite the rain, and continue to sell things to people willing enough to come outside their homes in this weather. _Again with the merchants. . ._ Bertholdt thinks to himself. Of course, he’s stolen by other means before—it’s just easier to steal from a merchant than to go through all of the trouble of breaking into someone’s house or something like that. If he’s desperate, he’ll result to desperate strategies; it’s as simple as that.

One thing does stand out to Bertholdt as he makes his way around. Were those guards there this morning? He can’t remember. The security has surely gone up, he notices. The rain’s falling harder now and loud rumbles sound in the distance. A storm? Bertholdt rounds a corner and nearly ends up bumping into someone. Momentarily panicking, he realizes he must blend in better now with his cloak. He could easily be mistaken as a villager who’s simply searching for refuge from the rain in his cloak. Nonetheless, he’s still very cautious.

“You there! Halt!”

Not cautious enough, apparently.

He knows the stern voice is directed at him. Fleeing is so impulsive after being caught that Bertholdt doesn’t even realize he's running until he nearly trips and falls on his face. Harsh winds blow the rain in the opposing direction that Bertholdt is running, effectively blurring his vision. He keeps his head down and hood up, not once daring to look back. He can hear the armor _clanking_ against the ground behind him and curses. It had to be knights. . . Bertholdt ducks into an alley nearby, attempting to separate or at least confuse the knights on his trail. He feels incredibly foolish for letting himself be caught like this. He should have looked around that corner first.

_Why didn’t I just—_

There’s an immense amount of pressure to his neck, and he’s falling back. He gasps and then winces as his head hits the solid ground. He doesn’t yell or scream. He’s completely composed. A hand had managed to grab his hood and yank him backwards, causing him to fall flat on his back. Looking up at the dark sky, he feels cold raindrops splash onto his face. Voices are murmuring behind him.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Tch. It is just a boy. He was probably just trying to get out of this rain.”

“Naïve boys ‘just trying to get out of this rain’ do not run when we tell him to halt, Ackerman.”

“What do you reckon we do with him then?”

“Men, step aside.”

Black dots dance in the corners of Bertholdt’s vision and he feels dizzy, but he finds that last voice to be strangely familiar. The shuffling of iron boots is heard, and Bertholdt is contemplating whether or not he should resist.

“Report to the head guard that we have found an offender,” the voice orders, and Bertholdt recognizes that authoritative tone. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he’s suddenly preparing for the worst. The iron boots are moving again, but receding until they’re but a mere echo in the thief’s ears.

“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

“I-I never was good at listening.”


End file.
